Evil sacrifice because it serves no greater good.

How is it

that such death threats are made

toward those who speak about sexual violence?

Those who report on sexual violence?

Those who observe and express that sexual violence is?

Hatred toward them?  Death threats toward them?

From whom?

Who would hate to see the eradication of sexual violence against the human sacrifice of children’s and women’s bodies in this predator patriarchy?

What purpose does this rape/pedophile culture serve in our society?  Who benefits from it?  Why?  How?  When?  Where?

What?

There is a distinct and imminent threat in the air when one airs about sexually destructive behavior.  Such a secrecy.  For what?  The only death would be to the current way things are.  Surely new and better life would replace that old dead husk.

I wonder who it is that actually makes the death threats.  The phone calls.  The letters.  I wonder what type it is.  Internet troll.  Protecting the one who sexually molested him when he was young.  Collector of child pornography collection.  Maybe people know.  Maybe they don’t.  His cruelty and hatred live such a life of prominence inside of his body and soul.  They direct him.

The sickness of the trauma left to fester grows like mistletoe upon a tree.  Suffusing.  Throughout.   Larger and larger bundles of it showing more prominently now that the leaves are gone.  Parasite: eating at a hosts table.

This guy calls with a death threat quietly from the storm of his empty room.   He will show them they are not allowed to speak.  He is not allowed to speak.  He must be a man.  Others must be in his image.  The crown must not fall.  The system needs upholding.  Help cleaning.

The rage.  The violence.  The silence.

Sending a letter with a death threat.  “Shut up!”  There is such a violence to those types of secrets.

Maybe another one is out and out violent and simply for pleasure does not want the games to stop.  It is only a game.

Those in good service to the church or whatever fraternal order of the father it is coming from now, they too will help to cover up so that they can be clean and good, simple and pure.

So then it is left to the bad ones to speak truth.

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The Rhythm of My Shame

The rhythm of my shame goes like this:

Word beat pause beat movement beat shame beat shame shame shame beat beat

Thought beat thought beat shame beat shame shame shame beat beat shame beat

Im so sick and tired of that lame same rhythm.

New song!

Spon-beat-ta-beat-ne-beat-i-beat-ty beat beat yay yay beat beat yaa yaaaaaay

In Which I talk with Fear

Me: I’m not going to use you again, fear, to talk myself out of reality.  I understand that things actually can be simple if I don’t use you to talk myself out of the ease of that reality.

Fear:  No!  You need to be better.  There is something wrong with how you do.  Try this thing.  Try that thing.  Get yourself as far as possible away from simplicity.

Me: No.  I tried that before and it doesn’t work.  It doesn’t make me better.  What I am good at and love to do is simple and easy for me.  I am not going to use you to talk myself out of that reality again.  I will rest in the discipline of simplicity.  I will rest in letting myself top out doing what I love because it is a joy for me.  I will not use you, fear, to talk myself out of that reality.

Fear: But, what about this person?  What about that outcome?  What about the consequences?

Me: What about them?  The simplicity of doing what I love and all the work that entails is a reality that I get to inhabit as a joy and a freedom.  And it is simple.  I have to do the work, but it is the simple work of simply doing that work.  I will not let you talk me out of the simplicity of that reality without you.  Goodbye fear.

Felt Vision

The Felt is in the room.

Vision has become black and dark brown checkered spots.  Then pure black.

The Felt is in the room.

Clear.  Sure as a seen object.

You know The Felt in a felt vision.

You now know The Felt and you now know you can trust it because you know it.

There is a white, opalescence shimmering through crystal grains and changing spikes and glows of light.  This white sensation is felt with awe and wonder in the pure blackness.

Particles of intuition move through this simmering in the black with different thrusts and arrivals and curls.  Clarity comes through regarding different states of being, existing, experiencing.

Capacity changes.

The Felt is something so different from the ordinary.  If it is not god then it is another dimension and the bigness of experiencing that feels like god it is so big, so numinous, so amazing so wonderful so awe-inspiring.  If it is not god it is some other being communicating in ways that aren’t easily available to humans for some reason.  Maybe because like Carl Sagan suggests we might be too violent.

The Felt shows me my easy follies in my momentary assumptions and movements as if they were nothing more than a jacket to shrug off when I had thought them stuck into my bones.

I experienced the growth I’ve made in a way I could really trust when The Felt shimmered through and let me feel myself from a totally different and completely unexpected perspective or dimension or god-eye or what…

I experienced myself from another perspective.  I felt myself from another perspective.  Not as words coming from loved ones.  I felt myself as a new voice spoke from around and/or within me and informed me with a greater authority, a greater clarity, a greater numinosity than I have ever known how to feel before, that I was transformed.  Too good to be true now I knew could be trusted.

Felt visions are different each time.  What is cool about them is that the feeling leaves you with no doubt.  Interpretation of course is hard but the feeling will come through and sear you like lightning.  For one moment, feeling will give you eyes into the inner world and will let you see exactly how things are without the amazing acrobatic feats of the human ego interpreting things for your eyes instead.

Feelings give inner eyes.

Felt visions are akin to being struck by a feeling-lightning bolt. Who threw it?  Why at that particular moment?

 

Evens and odds

I forgot about fear for a moment.

It wasn’t even in my orbit as a possible response.

For the moment

I was all relaxed myself

and humorous

and enjoying the curlique route

of going for my passion.

Red.

It was all all right and it felt so relaxed.

So, so humorous.

And clear.

Most of all clear.

I could do anything I would to do.

It was easy.

And if failure?

More humorous.

Living life without fear is simply relearning how to relax and then laugh at how absurdly impossible the odds have always been anyways.

The odds are impossible.  Ill try to get even anyway.  Even with what I want.  Even with balance. Even with staying soft and loving in the onslaught of such hard truths. Even with the odds.

Life will smoosh me anyway.  I want to go laughing at how absurd it is to even try the odds.

Even with the odds.

A Better Battler

Against the voice of shame

we must raise a generation

that knows how

to battle better.

I know shame is needed

to let a body know when it has hurt another body

but this cultural shame

is nothing more than self-loathing

cloaked in rejection

and we must not let it’s voice enter unto our neutral space.

The Rain and My Watering

I was in those terrible hurries today.

One moment

screaming at the credit card company man on the phone in the house.

Next moment

songing outside in the garden with the plants like an angel.

Propelled by an energy that was only partly mine

driven around by forces I don’t stop enough to examine.

Examine: To weigh.

Well weighing is a balancing act at it’s core.  Imbalance or balance that is the test of weighing.

Tear Boat

Ill teach you how to cry.

First, you gotta lay back and

relax.

Then

you just gotta remind yourself

that it is ok to cry.

Then

you just let the sadness wash over you a few times.

The first wash

it might feel scary and good

then the second wash you will really cry and feel sad

and you will know you are going to be OK.

Then by the third

wash

it either builds again

or lets off.

Either way if it last a few moments more

or not

when it is over

you will have let that portion of the sadness go

because you felt through it

and tears got you there.

Tears are a boat.

White Women

Can’t see

the violence

of sexual violence.

 

Perhaps because

white women

have always been

pretty.

Attractive.  Pleasing.

 

The other women

Black Women

Native American Women

have all been

ugly

in the eyes of a sick nation.

 

That is why

these other women

can see.

They know how ugly the culture can be when the culture thinks you’re ugly.

 

They are not worried about dropping down into life

and sullying their pert appeal

and becoming unattractive.

 

Thus

they can see

the violence

in sexual violence.

 

Ugliness is freedom.

Beauty is only beauty

if there is no constant demand for physical beauty to be in place

like a mask on a face

covering the eyes

the mouth

the breathing nose

the hearing ears

Men who hurt

Trauma

must produce

as one of its hallmarks

stockholm syndrome.

How else

would so many white women

refuse to see the evil

in men like Trump and Kavanaugh?

Wanting to protect

the type of men who have violated them all their lives

so they don’t have to feel the pain

of experiencing evil

produces a sort of collective

stockholm syndrome

where these hurt women

want to protect these men who hurt

at the expense of their own vitality.

Anything to avoid pain white women?

White women who protect men who hurt them, do you think you can get some of that bully power

for yourself so you don’t have to feel your pain of being the victim?

It is the hardest thing to move from being a victim to being your own best advocate.  It starts with experiencing the pain of what happened to you fully felt and breathed through.

Most

Black women

Latinx women

who have experienced the evil of men and this society

and know the pain clear-eyed

have no such protective illusions

except toward those

who need protection

and those

who deserve protection

from the evil sacrifice

of men who hurt